


Loving You Is A Piece Of Cake

by backtoblack101



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Domestic Fluff, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:39:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4102932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backtoblack101/pseuds/backtoblack101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-nine ain't old, but it ain't young either and while Angie's busy fretting over her squandered youth she almost forgets to appreciate what's right in front of her.</p><p>or, the one where Peggy can't bake to save her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loving You Is A Piece Of Cake

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the tumblr prompt "Imagine person A has an awful birthday and everyone forgets. When they get home, they discover person B baked them a cake. Bonus: the cake is poorly made, but made with love."

Twenty-nine.

Not quite thirty, but not quite twenty-one either (and there were far more roles for twenty-one year olds than there were for twenty-nine year olds). Not that Angie couldn’t still pass for twenty-six – heck it’d been the only way she’d been getting the parts she’d been getting for the past few years. Still though, twenty-nine just felt _old_.

She took a cloth to her face and started wiping away her stag make-up, examining each pore and wrinkle that was revealed beneath the heavy foundation. One of the other cast members in her last show had told her about a face mask she could use but she’d jumped from her last show straight into rehearsals for this one and lord knows where a gal was supposed to find the time to go shopping for fancy face masks when there was a show to put on.

She’d considered asking Peggy to nip out to the local drug store some evening she was done work at a reasonable hour to pick one up, though she could already hear the English woman’s scoff of disproval. It was _easy_ for her to scoff though, thirty-four years old and still no more aged than the day Angie had met her. Sure she got the odd grey hair – the stresses of her job and her friendship with Howard apparently – but that was easily hidden with a little colour. Wrinkles on the other hand…

Angie finished cleaning her face then sighed in defeat. Her agent had warned her about turning thirty and although she wasn’t quite there yet she could already hear the haunting call of radio reminding her that pretty soon it’d be the only place her talent would be wanted.

If Broadway was where young, vibrant dreams were realised, then radio was where they went to die.

She scanned her changing room quickly to make sure she’d left nothing behind then picked up her handbag, ready to leave for the evening. It was her last show of the week, thank god, and her feet screamed inside her pink kitten heels, reminding her to _please god_ soak them in a nice warm foot bath as soon as she got home. An excited shuddered ran through her at the very thought and it made the quick journey between her changing room and the stage door that much more doable.

Of course there were still lingering fans outside waiting for a glimpse of her and she had to say she didn’t really mind. Of course it wasn’t the fame she’d gotten into this business for (she really didn’t think she’d be able to handle some of the crazed admirers that followed movie stars around) though after years slaving away in the L&L it sure was nice to get a little recognition for a job well done. So she signed their programmes, answered their questions, and shook their hands until out of the corner of her eye she saw a car pulling up across the street.

“Sorry guys but my ride’s here.” She took a step away from the bubble of people, smiling at their audible disappointment. Theatre fans never fussed though – she quite liked that about them really – and so she was able to make a quick getaway, sliding into the passenger seat before Mr Jarvis had a chance to run around and open it.

“You know it is common curtsy to allow your door to be opened for you,” Jarvis reprimanded crisply when he’d begrudgingly made his way back around to the driver side. “Especially when your driver is already on his way to do so.”

“Don’t gimme all that,” Angie scoffed. “I already know Peggy doesn’t let you open doors for her so really you should just stop tryin’.”

She could see his A Good Butler Performs His Duties Without Being Asked speech queueing up on the tip of his tongue before she’d even finished teasing him though at the last minute he swallowed it and instead turned to Angie with a bright but tight smile. “Happy Birthday Ms Martinelli.”

Angie wasn’t sure why this caught her off guard. The fact that she was aging (and thus steadily creeping towards her death but whatever) had been on her mind for the better part of the day yet no one had actually mentioned it to her until now. Peggy of course had been at work before Angie’s head had even risen off the pillow and her folks – well, her folks had seven kids including Angie, and at this point at least three grandkids from most of them, so if they forgot an occasion every now and then she figured the least she owed them was a little leeway.

“Thanks Mr Fancy.” She matched his smile. “Don’t suppose you could get me home this side of the hour as a present?”

He nodded sharply then coaxed the engine to life, only speaking again when they’d pulled out onto the street. “Not the best day then I take it if you’re so eager to get home?”

“Not the best, not the worst,” Angie shrugged at her reflection in the glass, watching the buildings gliding past. “Not a huge fan of birthdays.”

“The entire concept can become rather ridiculous once you’ve reached a certain age.”  Angie should have guessed she’d find a sympathetic ear in Jarvis; he didn’t seem like the kind of man that enjoyed the type of fuss a typical birthday would bring.

“Birthdays were never huge ordeals when I was a kid. Ma and pa had seven of us to raise and money could be tight,” Angie explained absently, her eyes still focused on the passing figures on the pavement. “Now that I’m older it’s just another year gone by that I coulda spent doin’ more, y’know?” She shrugged at nothing in particular. “Coulda done more shows, coulda done less shows and travelled some instead like I always said I would…”

Jarvis chanced a glance at her when the car slowed in traffic. “Seems to me Ms Martinelli you’re becoming restless.”

“Not restless just…” Just what? Angie paused, her brain grasping for the right word or phrase to sum up how she felt. “I dunno…” She huffed out eventually. “I feel like I’m not creating the waves I want to create, y’know? I’m a year off thirty and not where I imagined I would be.”

“I’m sure you’re right where you’re supposed to be Ms Martinelli,” Jarvis replied and Angie just rolled her eyes.

She didn’t bother pressing him for more helpful advice. Right up there with his A Good Butler Performs His Duties Without Being Asked speech was his A Good Butler Never Gives His Personal Opinion On A Matter speech – it had been sometime around the fourth or fifth occasion Angie had gone to him for advice on Peggy that she’d realised it wasn’t only a speech, but words by which he lived. Instead she let the car fall into silence for the remainder of the journey, having found that often Jarvis was better for his companionable silences than for his thought provoking conversation. It wasn’t that much further to the house anyway and before Angie knew it the car tires were crunching across the gravel driveway.

“I trust it would be a waste of my time if I were to insist on opening the door for you?” He asked the same question every time he left her home but Angie still found it endearing.

“You wouldn’t be quick enough even if you tried,” Angie teased, her fingers already curling around the door handle.

Her feet ached even more when she stepped out of the vehicle, as if they could sense how close they were to the good long soak she’d promised them, and she wasn’t long toeing off her shoes once she stepped into the foyer. She relished in the way the cold tile eased the ache in the balls of her feet and she spent a minute just standing there flexing and curling her toes against the ground.

“Peg?” She hollered into the vast sprawling house that lay in front of her – the foyer had a high ceiling that reached up through both floors, meaning it was ideal for carrying her voice around the mansion.

“Kitchen.” Came her girlfriends reply from – well, the kitchen obviously and so Angie hung up her jacket, dropped her purse and headed down to the end of the hall where the door lay ajar.

“Y’know what I say English?” Angie began once she was close enough to the door to be heard without raising her voice. “I say tonight me an’ you just curl up on the cou– holy hell.”

She stopped in her tracks with the door pushed open and her mouth hanging slack; Peggy had been baking. Slowly her eyes roved across their kitchen, _her kitchen_ – her space for whipping up something spectacular or throwing together some comfort food after a long day – completely dismantled now under layers of flour and cake batter. A space that would never see itself returned to its former glory.

Okay so maybe Angie was being dramatic. Maybe the majority of the kitchen had remained largely untouched and really it was the kitchen island and the floor around it that had seen the majority of the damage but really, like _really,_ how was it even possible to create this level of mess.

“Happy birthday?” Peggy offered sheepishly, not having failed to notice the way Angie’s eyes grew in horror.

“Peggy…” Angie began, though she couldn’t quite find an eloquent way to phrase the question. “How?” She offered instead, motioning at the carnage around her.

 Peggy shuffled from foot to foot on the other side of the island then huffed out a breath. “Flour is extraordinarily difficult to pour…” she offered and Angie’s lips quirked to a smile at the pout that settled on her girlfriends face and the way she didn’t quite catch Angie’s eye.

“You’re too cute English, y’know that?” Angie hummed sympathetically, stepping around the island (careful to avoid what appeared to be part of an egg yolk) and sliding up in front of Peggy. “You’re also a disaster,” she added, licking her thumb and using it to wipe away a smear of cake batter across Peggy’s cheek just for emphasis.

“Yes well I wanted to do something special for you to mark the occasion.” She wrapped her arms around Angie’s waist and pulled their bodies flush together.

“So you thought t’hell with the fact you can’t actually cook and you decided to make me a cake?” Angie summarised with a wise nod and a flick of her wrist to dust flour off Peggy’s shoulder.

“It was a sponge cake,” Peggy huffed, still avoiding eye contact. “I figured even I could master a bloody sponge cake.”

“And?” Angie took a step back and scanned the room. “Did you?” She hadn’t actually seen the monster created amongst this mess and although she was sure she already knew the result there was a small part of her that thought maybe it would all be for something.

Peggy turned her head to the fridge and motioned to the door without ever moving from her spot. “Just remember…” She began when Angie took her first tentative steps towards the fridge. “I have a vast array of other skills and talents you love me for.”

Angie scoffed out a laugh. “Yea well, one of ‘em better be cleanin’.” She took a final glance around the room to make a point then opened the fridge door, her eyes immediately landing on… what she presumed to be a cake.

In fact maybe ‘cake’ was too generous a term to allocate to whatever the hell sat on the shelf in front of her, wedged between a bowl of balled melon and a milk jug. It obviously hadn’t quite set and by that she meant the left side had run off the plate entirely and onto the shelf, creating a thick creamy looking goo that she was sure was gonna be a nightmare to scrape off and clean. To overcompensate for the undercooked cake Peggy had obviously overcooked the chocolate she’d used for decoration and large, cracked crystals of sugar sat black and heavy over the top of what remained of the cake.

The cake was certainly a disaster, probably even more so than Angie had anticipated, and yet she couldn’t find it in herself to laugh at her girlfriend’s efforts. She couldn’t laugh, or mock, or poke fun because the other thing the cake possessed, the thing that had caught Angie’s eye the second she’d opened the fridge door, was clumsy, sloppy writing done out in purple icing that read “Happy Birthday Angie, Love Peggy” – well with the side melted it actually read “appy Birthday ngie ove Peggy” though the sentiment was obvious enough that all the letters weren’t necessary.

“It’s perfect…” Angie murmured, stooping down to lift it off the shelf, careful not to stick her fingers in the melted batter.

“Oh ha ha, you’re so amusing.” Peggy stood with her arms crossed defensively, glaring at her girlfriend and the disastrous cake.

Angie shook her head violently though, still staring down at the runny icing. “Y’know,” she began slowly. “I’ve never felt more loved than I’ve felt with you.” She glanced up at Peggy, catching the look of confusion at the out of the blue confession. “An’ all day I’ve been frettin’ about turnin’ twenty-nine and how I’m not where I want to be in life and how I’m runnin’ outta time to create the perfect life for myself and I –“ She stepped back over to Peggy and deposited the cake on the counter to free her hands up so she could drape them over her girlfriend’s shoulders. “I do have the perfect life. I work in a job I love and I’ve a beautiful home and most importantly, I’ve got you.” She pulled her lower lip between her teeth trying to contain her smile. “So who cares if a few years from now the only gigs I can get are ones where no one sees my face, I’ll still have you to come home to even when my hair’s grey an’ I’m covered in wrinkles.”

Peggy dipped her head to catch Angie’s lips in a brief kiss, pulling back slowly with a lopsided grin. “Well…” she began, her voice teasing in spite of her love struck stare. “I don’t know about loving you once you have _wrinkles…_ ”

Angie swatted her arm and attempted a glare that just fell short of intimidating. “Shut up English an’ help me clean up so I can cook us some real dinner and you can rustle me up somethin’ to soak my feet in.”

**Author's Note:**

> Is 7 siblings a bit excessive for Angie?? Who knows?? I was gonna say she had 9 siblings but then I was like 'nah, she's Italian, not Irish' so i resisted. 
> 
> Also I know what you're thinking, 'could a cake actually go THAT wrong??' and the answer is yes, yes it can *home economics flashback*
> 
> (PS: if you guys have anything you'd like me to write hmu on tumblr at aynsleys-blue-scarf.tumblr.com)


End file.
